


Ghosts Without Graves

by Ostentenacity



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fix-It, Gerry Lives... Sorta (TMA), Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-MAG120, Scottish Honeymoon Era, pre-MAG160, pre-martingerry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostentenacity/pseuds/Ostentenacity
Summary: “I’m already dead, after all.” Gerry smiles, a mirthless flash of teeth. “If I pop out of existence tomorrow, fine. If I stick around for a while, well—at least now I’ve got someone to talk to.” His tone of voice is still blasé, but his gaze falls heavily on Jon, as though asking,Right?“Yes,” says Jon. “Yes, of course.”---When Jon wakes up from his coma, he finds that while Gerry may still be dead, he’s not exactly gone.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood & Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 36
Kudos: 145
Collections: TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VentisetteStars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VentisetteStars/gifts).



> Written for the TMA Valentine’s Day Exchange 2021. Shout-out to Elian for helping me get this off the ground and to [IceEckos12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12) for beta reading!
> 
> Some dialogue in the second chapter is borrowed from Episode 146 (Threshold). 
> 
> Content warnings for each chapter in the chapter end notes.

The mood during the trip back to the Institute is subdued. Jon hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask directly what happened to Martin, and Basira hasn’t seen fit to tell him, so the dread simmers within him all the way there.

On the other hand, his first post-hospital encounter with Melanie is downright nerve-wracking, to say the least. Jon’s heart is still pounding when he gets back to the door of his office. He’s looking forward to sitting down for a few minutes and reading a statement to clear his head—not the most relaxing of pursuits, maybe, but he has a hunch he’ll still feel better afterwards.

But this day is determined to be a strange one, because when Jon pushes the door open, there’s someone sitting in his chair. A very  _ familiar _ someone.

“Thank God,” says Gerry Keay, disregarding Jon’s shout. “For a while there, I was worried that I’d never have a chance to talk to  _ anyone _ again.” He takes his combat-booted feet off of Jon’s desk, stands up, and ambles over to give Jon a hand. “I dunno if this is going to work,” he says as he crouches down, with what strikes Jon as false cheer. “I haven’t had much luck with anyone else. Though nobody else seems to be able to see me, not even other people with the End’s claws in them, so…” He shrugs, hand still outstretched.

Jon eyes it warily before cautiously allowing Gerry to attempt to help him up from where he’d tripped backwards and fallen over the wastepaper basket. But unfortunately, although there is some resistance, his hand passes cleanly through Gerry’s, leaving only a lingering chill deep in the bones.

Gerry—the apparition of Gerry? Gerry’s shade?—glares at his own hand as though it had personally offended him. “Damn it.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet, totters unsteadily over to his desk chair, and collapses into it. Gerry fetches Jon’s other chair—he seems to be able to move inanimate objects without difficulty, Jon notes through the fog of befuddlement—and sits down across the desk from Jon. He puts his feet back on top of the desk. Jon can’t bring himself to tell him off.

“How…?” Jon begins, and then finds he doesn’t have the words to finish the question.

Gerry doesn’t seem to mind. “Not sure,” he says. “I felt you burn my page—thanks for holding up your end of the bargain, by the way—but I didn’t go away like I thought I would. I just found myself standing up on the front steps of the Institute. At first I thought someone had summoned me, but there wasn’t anyone nearby. Plus, it didn’t…” He trails off, frowning in thought. “I told you before that it felt wrong, didn’t I? Still being around after I was dead?”

“Yes,” says Jon.

“I was wrong,” says Gerry, blunt. “It only felt wrong to be in the book. Being a non-book-related ghost—or whatever I am—doesn’t hurt the same way. It’s just boring. And lonely.”

“I’m sorry,” says Jon lamely.

Gerry’s expression softens ever so slightly. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “And like I said, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Net positive, as far as I’m concerned.”

A thought suddenly occurs to Jon. “Hang on. Are there… others? Other… ghosts, or, or revenants…?”

“No,” says Gerry, and Jon has to look away from the naked pity in his eyes. “Sorry. I’m the only one I’ve seen.”

Jon isn’t sure whether the surge of  _ something _ he feels is relief or just more grief. It doesn’t matter. He pushes it down. “What do we do?” he asks.

“Pardon?”

Jon gestures at Gerry’s… body? At his form, Jon supposes. He’s not transparent, the way he’d been when Jon had summoned him from the book, but he hasn’t forgotten the way his hand passed through Gerry’s as though it were empty air. “I haven’t heard of anything exactly like this happening, but there are plenty of statements in the archives I haven’t read. We could do some research, try and figure out what… happened…?” Jon trails off as Gerry shakes his head.

“It’s nice of you to offer,” says Gerry. “And if you stumble across something relevant, then sure, I’d like to hear it. But I’m not about to inflict more statements on you. And honestly, I don’t think there’s much  _ to _ do. I’m already dead, after all.” He smiles, a mirthless flash of teeth. “If I pop out of existence tomorrow, fine. If I stick around for a while, well—at least now I’ve got someone to talk to.” His tone of voice is still blasé, but his gaze falls heavily on Jon, as though asking,  _ Right? _

“Yes,” says Jon. “Yes, of course.”

* * *

Jon doesn’t mention Gerry to the others.

He doesn’t  _ mean _ to keep Gerry’s presence a secret. At least, not at first. But Basira is focused and closed-off, not to mention intensely suspicious of any even-slightly-spooky new developments. Melanie isn’t talking to him at all, and Martin—Martin isn’t talking to anybody. And the longer Jon goes without bringing up the fact that,  _ oh, by the way, the ghost of Gerry Keay—yes, that Gerard Keay, but he prefers Gerry—is inhabiting the archives and only I can see or hear him,  _ the more awkward Jon feels in broaching the subject. By the time a week has passed, he’s ready to give up entirely.

“Is it all right with you?” asks Jon tentatively. Awkward or no, if Gerry decides he wants better company, Jon will have to find some way of explaining himself. “The others not knowing, I mean? Would you like me to try… interpreting, or passing messages?”

“Nah,” says Gerry. Jon’s shoulders slump involuntarily with relief. “I did try writing notes a while back, but it never worked. I even tried throwing things and banging doors, the whole haunting schtick, but…” He shrugs. “For an Institute full of paranormal researchers, the staff here is shockingly incurious about weird noises and missing objects. I think there’s a little more to it than just them not being able to see or hear me, and honestly, I’d rather not set myself up for disappointment.”

“I’m sorry,” says Jon. 

Gerry shoots him an irritated look. “You do keep saying that, yes.” 

Jon’s face heats. He looks down. 

Gerry’s sigh is short and gusty, but when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly patient. “We’ve established pretty thoroughly by now that I’m dead and you’re sympathetic,” he says. “Can we just treat that as a given and move on?”

“Yes, of course,” says Jon. He gives himself a little shake. “...You tried throwing things? Did the researchers just not notice when you picked things up?”

“Not at all,” says Gerry. “Same as always—it was like I wasn’t there.” He catches Jon’s eye. “What?”

“Nothing,” says Jon.

Gerry raises an eyebrow.

Jon groans and rubs his hands over his face. “It’s not—it wouldn’t  _ help,”  _ he says. “The problem isn’t that he shoos me away when he sees me, it’s that he doesn’t want me there in the first place.”

Gerry’s expression softens. “Did you talk to him again today?”

“I talked  _ at _ him,” Jon informs the floor. 

Like he’s done a few times over the past few days, Gerry plucks Jon’s coat from the hook by his office door and tosses it over Jon’s shoulders. The fabric is chilled through, as though it had been hanging outside in the late February chill rather than in Jon’s heated office, but Jon has figured out by now that Gerry isn’t trying to warm him up. The coat is the only soft object in the room; the gesture makes a much better facsimile of a hug or a pat on the shoulder than if Gerry had dropped a pencil or a file box on him. Jon reaches up and digs his hand into the stiff fabric of the collar for a moment before draping the coat over the back of his chair. 

Gerry doesn’t say anything, for which Jon is grateful. What is there to say? He and Martin have never met, so any reassurance as to Martin’s remaining feelings would be pure speculation, and Jon has never much cared for platitudes. Gerry’s sympathetic silence is as much of a balm to Jon’s soul as he can stand.

* * *

“Jon, you’re not listening to me,” says Gerry, for at least the third time this conversation. “You will be trapped, forever. You will hurt, _forever.”_

“What choice do I have?” Jon asks. “I can’t just—just  _ leave _ her there.”

“Yes, you can,” Gerry shoots back. “She’s been in there for  _ seven months. _ People don’t escape the Buried, and they especially don’t escape after more than half a year! Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Jon snaps. “Don’t even try? Don’t try to, to correct my mistakes, or do right by the people I’ve—?”

“Don’t  _ throw away your life,” _ Gerry says, voice suddenly and uncomfortably raw. 

He and Jon both have to look away from each other, suddenly. 

“Do you know why I told you that chopping off your finger wouldn’t work?” Gerry asks quietly.

“...Because it… won’t?”

“No, Jon,” says Gerry. His appearance never changes much—no fluctuating patterns of stubble, no growth in his hair or nails, not even subtle changes in the color or fullness of his face like a living person might have over the course of a day—but Jon thinks he looks tired, somehow. “Well, yes, it  _ wouldn’t,  _ but—It was because I wanted you to  _ give up. _ I want you to stay here, with—where it’s safe.”

“Oh,” says Jon. He probably ought to feel hurt at that revelation, but he’s not sure he does. He shakes his head. “I—thank you? But I can’t just—decide to play it safe. Not when I could  _ do _ something.”

“Why are you so determined about this, anyway?” asks Gerry, taking on a pleading tone. “You told me yourself what she did to you. Why is  _ that _ the sort of person you want to stick your neck out for?”

“She wouldn’t be in there if not for me,” says Jon.

“Bullshit,” says Gerry. Jon blinks at him. “She could have refused to go to the Unknowing. She could have  _ picked a different career. _ You didn’t put her in there; getting her out is  _ not your job.” _

“All right, then,” Jon snaps. “Because nobody else is going to. How’s that?”

“If it were you in there—”

“If it were me in there, she wouldn’t come to get me,” Jon says flatly. “Nobody would.”

Gerry’s eyes widen for an instant, before he closes them and pinches the bridge of his nose. There follows a long silence. Jon isn’t sure how to break it, or if he even should.

“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I,” says Gerry eventually.

“Probably not,” says Jon.

“Goddamn it.” Gerry rubs his face with both hands. “All right. Fine. In the interest of getting you back safe… Your anchor idea wasn’t half bad on principle, but you’re approaching it wrong.”

“Really?”

“An anchor’s got to be something you want to come back to,” says Gerry. “Not out of some vague symbolic yearning for wholeness, like your finger idea. It has to be actual  _ want.  _ And it works best when it’s a specific person.”

“Does the person… have to be alive?” Jon asks.

Gerry huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh if there’d been any mirth in it, a quiet sadness hovering somewhere around his eyes. “I’m flattered, but I don’t think I’m your best choice here.” At Jon’s uncomprehending stare, he jerks his head towards the ceiling, in the vague direction of the administrative offices on the Institute’s top-most floor. 

Jon looks away, throat suddenly tight. “But I’m not—I can’t—” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “If _ —when _ —I come back, he’ll still be working with Peter. I wouldn’t be coming back to him, not really.”

“Granted, the fact that you know that will make this more difficult,” says Gerry. “Another reason not to go, if you’re looking for one. But it’s the desire that’s the important part, not what actually happens afterwards.”

Jon nods slowly. “Thank you.” As always, the coffin draws his eye. “Does that mean I could just… go in right now…?”

“Might want to write a note first,” says Gerry. “I can’t exactly tell the others where you’ve gone.”

“Right,” says Jon, and starts to hunt through the drawers of his desk. It was reorganized in his absence, and he hasn’t had time to put it to rights. As always, the drawer with the jar of ashes in it takes him by surprise. He goes to close it again, and then pauses and picks it up.

It’s just a glass mason jar with a dented lid, its contents barely distinguishable from the soot one might find at the bottom of a fireplace. Jon sighs. Glass can break after all, especially under pressure; he’d better not risk it. But even if he’s not leaving behind a piece of himself, maybe he can still leave a physical anchor. He puts it back in the drawer, and stares at it a moment longer before sliding it back into the desk.

He finds himself wishing, as he walks down into the dark, that he could have left more than just that one jar of ashes. Despite Gerry’s advice, he can’t bring himself to focus on only one anchor. It feels lopsided, having a symbol of only one of the people he wants to come back to.

* * *

(Gerry doesn’t know what possesses him to move the note. There’s every possibility that, by interacting with it, he might render it invisible to the living; that certainly seemed to be the case with all the messages he’d tried to write. But when Martin picks it up from where it lies neatly in the center of his otherwise-bare desk, Gerry could swear his suspicious gaze rests not on the doorway itself, but on Gerry, standing in it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: isolation; mention of the Buried.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hold _still,”_ says Gerry, scowling, the tiny applicator suspended several inches above Jon’s fingernail.

“Sorry,” says Jon. “Let me just—” He picks his hands up off the desk and shakes them both lightly, trying to dispel the stiffness in his joints. Once he’s satisfied that he can hold them in place for another few minutes, he lays them back on the wood. “Try now?”

Strictly speaking, neither of them _have_ to breathe. Usually they both do it anyway, whether for the sake of keeping up appearances or just personal comfort. Right now, though, they both hold their breath as the brush comes down.

Very, very carefully, Gerry paints a dark purple strip down the center of Jon’s thumbnail. The applicator brush wobbles in his grip, but this time it stays in his hand, rather than phasing through his fingers the moment it comes into contact with Jon’s body. 

“Finally,” says Gerry, as Jon inspects the tiny pop of color. “You know, I wasn’t sure that was going to work.”

“I wonder why it did,” Jon muses. “Were you thinking something different at the time, maybe?”

“No,” says Gerry, almost before Jon is finished speaking. “Just—concentrating.”

The color, though shakily applied, is opaque and not in the least bit ghostly. Jon lays his hand back down. “Want to keep going?”

“Sure,” says Gerry, and leans back in over Jon’s fingers.

It’s been a little harder to find time to spend together as of late, ever since Jon made it out of the coffin. Bafflingly, Daisy seems to prefer his company even to Basira’s, and it’s a testament to how strained the atmosphere in the archives is that despite his profoundly troublesome history with her, Jon finds Daisy a calming presence compared to the other two. Despite that, he hasn’t confided in her about Gerry, and won’t, unless Gerry himself asks him to. And Jon is still wary as ever of speaking to invisible people where the others can see.

And regardless of all _that,_ there’s also the bone-deep exhaustion that’s dogged him ever since he got out of the coffin. Even with Gerry’s help, it’s not easy to stick to his resolution not to take any more live statements.

The brush wobbles and Gerry swears, bringing Jon’s attention back to the present. He’s almost done with Jon’s right hand. The color is messy around the edges, but that’s all right; it reminds him of the handful of times he’d done his nails in uni, past midnight when he’d meant to be studying. Christ, it makes him feel old. But even so, it’s a pleasant reminder that not everything in his life is overwork and loneliness.

Gerry finishes Jon’s right hand and scoots over to focus on his left. “Need a break?” Jon asks.

“Nah,” says Gerry absently, re-dipping the brush. “I’ll have to wait for the first coat to dry anyway.” 

There’s a faint chill hanging over Jon’s right hand, and he resists the urge to tuck it into a pocket; it wouldn’t do to smudge Gerry’s painstaking work. Or stain Jon’s jacket. Gerry’s face is intent as he moves the brush, focused; the tip of his tongue pokes out between his lips. Jon finds himself wondering if Gerry had looked like that while painting, when he’d been alive. “Do you still paint?” Jon asks, without entirely meaning to.

Gerry glances up, eyebrows raised. “Haven’t had much of a chance to, honestly,” he says. “There wasn’t any time when I was a book, and since then…” He shrugs. “It’s not like there’s much in the way of art supplies in the Institute—I guess I didn’t check Artifact Storage, but I don’t want to invite _more_ curses into my life, you know?—and I didn’t want to get some poor retail employee in trouble if inventory came up short. Even if I could go shopping like normal, I don’t exactly have any money.”

“Oh. I suppose that makes sense.”

Gerry goes back to his task. He’d sounded almost wistful. Or, at least, Jon _thinks_ he’d sounded wistful. He hopes he’d heard right; an idea is starting to hatch in the back of his mind.

* * *

Jon had had half an idea to surprise Gerry with the results of his impromptu online shopping trip, but when Gerry cranes his head over Jon’s shoulder at the painting supply website, Jon is more relieved than disappointed. He’s never seen one of Gerry’s paintings with his own eyes, and the store appears to stock more than a dozen different types of paint, each with its own dizzyingly complicated set of options for brand and color and size. He wouldn’t want to guess wrong.

“Oh,” says Gerry softly, and then, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“You said yourself it gets boring down here,” says Jon lightly. “Besides, this is all coming out of the department budget.”

“Is it, now?” Gerry smirks. “Well, in that case—”

By the time Gerry is done, the total is in the multiple hundreds of pounds. Jon winces reflexively at the number, even though he’s not paying for it and there’s little chance he’ll be asked to do so; whoever is handling the money since Elias’s departure hasn’t denied a single expense he’s submitted since waking up, no matter how large or vaguely-justified the purchase. 

“What are you going to tell Basira and company?” Gerry asks as Jon finishes the order. “Needed to paint something for research? Always wanted to learn and now’s your chance?”

Faint heat crawls up Jon’s cheeks. “Honestly, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”

Jon’s not looking in his direction, but he can still hear the grin in Gerry’s voice. “Awww, was this one of your famous ridiculous impulse decisions? You really _do_ like me, after all.”

“Shut up,” Jon mumbles through his hands. 

“I’ll teach you the basics,” Gerry says once he’s done cackling. “So that you have something to show off to justify all this. I think we should probably hide what I make, unless you’re planning on breaking the news about the place being haunted.”

“Probably,” Jon agrees. 

His jacket suddenly drops off the back of his chair and onto his shoulders all at once. It’s frigid, as always, but Gerry’s voice is warm. “Seriously, though, Jon. Thanks.”

* * *

“Jon, seriously, this is a bad idea. If Gertrude didn’t go, there was a _reason._ She never endangered herself more than absolutely necessary, so if she skipped out on this one, you should, too.”

“But we don’t know _why!_ If I could just find the site, maybe look around a bit, interview one of the locals—”

“What did you tell me after you got out of the coffin?”

“Gerry—”

“What did you tell me, Jon?”

 _Sigh._ “That if you tell me not to do something and I want to do it anyway, you should remind me that I agreed to listen next time.”

“Good. Jon, _do not go to Ny-Ålesund.”_

“...Fine.”

* * *

“How many?”

“Basira, I—”

_“How many?”_

“Just two! I thought it was a fluke, the first time, but after I got stabbed by Melanie—”

“You are _not_ putting this on me—”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I thought I was just walking the streets, trying to clear my head, but… afterwards, when I talked to—when I _realized_ what had happened, I decided I didn’t want to… when it got bad after that, I went into document storage and just read as many statements as I could. It’s easier when there aren’t any living—when nobody else is around.” A pause. “It’s not as, er, _satisfying,_ though. I’m sure you’ve noticed,”—a breathless laugh—“I’ve been tired a lot since the coffin. Well, this is why. The Eye, it, it _wants_ me to go and find statements in the wild, so to speak, but I’m not—I _won’t_ do that.”

“You’re still a danger. How do we know you won’t hurt another innocent person?”

“You trust Daisy, don’t you?”

“That’s different. She hasn’t had a single relapse since getting out. _You,_ on the other hand—”

Quietly: “Basira, he’s got a point.”

“It’s not the _same.”_

Earnestly: “I won’t do it again. I _haven’t_ done it again, not in _months!_ Basira—”

“See that you don’t. If I have to, I _will_ stop you.”

* * *

Gerry looks up sharply when Jon comes back into the document storage and heads straight for the easel on the left, the one with the blank canvas. “Back so soon?”

Jon doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything, or he’ll lose what little is left of his composure. Instead, he picks up the palette that Gerry had insisted he buy for himself and flicks open the box that holds the tubes of paint.

“Jon?” Gerry is visible out of the corner of Jon’s vision, but Jon, flush with failure, can’t bear to look at him. There are half a dozen tubes of blue in the box, and as many hues of red, but both are too cliché for his hurt and contrary mood. Instead, Jon picks up the tube of brilliant orange that Gerry only uses sparingly, and only ever diluted with subtler colors, and squeezes a misshapen blob onto the palette.

“Jon!” Jon’s nose goes numb as Gerry thrusts a cold, incorporeal hand in front of his face. “Talk to me, please.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Jon asks. He sounds sulky and obstinate, which only compounds his mood. If he doesn’t do _something,_ he will implode. Jon mashes the tip of the paintbrush into the blob of paint and smears it across the canvas.

Gerry winces. “I’m guessing the conversation didn’t exactly go well?”

“He laughed at me,” says Jon. The words come out small and pitiful, instead of sharp like he’d wanted. “He _laughed_ at—at the idea that I had it in me to leave.”

“Shit,” Gerry mutters. Jon hears his footsteps retreating into the distance—is he leaving?—but then the hum of the ventilation system turns to a low roar as Gerry dials up the air circulation all the way to maximum. Right. Jon hasn’t started feeling light-headed from paint fumes yet, but he knows from unfortunate experience that it takes a long time for the air to clear if he lets them build up. 

The padding of feet comes back, and Jon’s hand abruptly goes cold as Gerry tugs the paintbrush out of his fist and re-settles it in a more delicate grip. His fingertips still pass through Jon’s, but the brush doesn’t even bother threatening to fall through his hand. It’s the closest he and Jon have ever come to touching. “Here,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want to give yourself a cramp.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon mumbles. 

“What for?” asks Gerry, stepping back and crossing his arms.

Jon laughs, though nothing about the situation is funny. “You just had the privilege of listening to the _worst possible_ old family story, and I’m the one who’s falling apart.”

Gerry rolls his eyes. “It’s not like any of that was a surprise to me, Jon. My mum told me about everything except the blinding. Gloated about it, even.”

“Still—”

Gerry talks right over him. “Yeah, all right, so I had a bit of a moment over finally getting to hear my dad’s voice. It doesn’t mean you don’t have reason to hurt like absolute _hell_ over getting turned down like that.”

The sight of the canvas, with its one blobby, eye-searing brushstroke, is suddenly humiliating. Jon sets down the palette, dumps the poor mangled brush into the cleaning jar, and turns away. “I could do it,” he says, earnest and plaintive. “I _would_ do it. Just not…” He trails off with a sigh.

“Not alone?”

Jon’s stomach lurches. He looks up at Gerry. “You wouldn’t want to—?”

“Oh! No, sorry, not what I meant.” Gerry waves a hand awkwardly. “Of course I’ll come with, if you want to go through with it anyway. I just meant, because you… and him…”

Jon’s eyebrows draw together.

Gerry scratches the back of his neck. “You _are_ in love with him, right? I’m not reading that wrong?”

Jon looks down. “You’re not.”

“Then of _course_ you don’t want to leave him behind.” Gerry chuckles, a little sadly. “He’d probably be better company than me, anyway. You’d save on the heating bill, for one thing.”

Jon stares at him again, now fully perplexed. “You just said you’d go with me.”

“I mean—” Gerry shrugs uncomfortably. “If you _really_ want a—a ghostly third wheel that bad, I’d love the company, but I can’t imagine that you—”

“You wouldn’t—” Jon swallows. “You wouldn’t be a third wheel. Or, at least, I certainly _hope_ you wouldn’t.” A thought strikes him, and he looks up suddenly. “If you _wanted_ to be, though, I certainly wouldn’t—I don’t mean to say that I wouldn’t be happy to continue on as we are, if you don’t—”

“Jon,” says Gerry, and Jon quiets. Gerry rubs his hands over his face. He doesn’t look tired or frustrated, though, like Jon had feared; rather, he looks… hopeful? Or possibly amused. “When were you planning on _telling_ me that?”

Jon frowns. “Was it not obvious?”

“Okay,” says Gerry. “Just so that we’re _absolutely_ clear. Are you saying that you’re inviting me on your elopement and subsequent blinding because you’re romantically interested in me? Or have I completely lost the plot?”

“The former,” says Jon, heat rising in his cheeks.

“You,” says Gerry, “are a _ridiculous_ man.” He scoops Jon’s favorite jacket up off of the nearby cot and dumps it over Jon’s shoulders. “I accept. Of _course.”_

“Well, that’s good—oof!” Jon wobbles as Gerry tosses the thicker winter coat Jon almost never wears over the top of the first jacket. Gerry snickers, though not unkindly, and when Jon sits down on the cot, he sits down right next to him.

“Are you going to try again?” Gerry asks, and a good bit of the levity drains out of the room.

“I don’t think asking flat-out is going to change his mind.”

“But?”

“I’m _not_ giving up,” says Jon fiercely. 

Gerry nods approvingly. “Good. Don’t. Though… One question. Have you asked what he thinks of this?” he asks, waving his hand vaguely between the two of them.

“I didn’t exactly get a chance to ask him,” says Jon, wrapping the chilled garments closer around himself. “He turned me down almost as soon as I’d explained what we’d need to do.”

Gerry reaches up and behind Jon. His hand has more give to it than it should, but with two additional layers of padding between them, he can just about pat Jon on the back. “What are you going to do if he objects to my being in the picture?”

“I don’t know,” says Jon. “I can’t—I _can’t_ just leave him here. But I can’t leave _you,_ either. I really, truly have no idea.”

Gerry sighs, and the pressure on Jon’s back increases before abruptly ceasing, and then turning instead into a cold spot that pierces all the way through Jon’s chest. “Damn it, sorry. I… I suppose we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it, then. That, and hope for the best.”

Jon, though sorely tempted, doesn’t say a word about how well hoping for the best has worked for either of them in the past. Instead, he leans over so that his wool-wrapped shoulder touches Gerry’s. He has to focus on the point of contact to keep from sliding straight through, but somehow, it’s easier now than it ever has been before. 

* * *

(Gerry has an even easier time than Jon does, chasing Martin into the Lonely. Peter is not only able to see him, but even calls him by name. Maybe all those lonely months before Jon, he’d been looking for company among people with the wrong sort of mark. Or maybe it wouldn’t have worked either way. There are so few hard-and-fast rules with this sort of thing, after all.

He hangs back while Jon and Martin have their moment. He may love Jon—and what a relief it is, to be able to admit that to himself—but he doesn’t know Martin. Not yet, anyway. When Jon takes Gerry’s hand in his free one, Martin’s eye catches on the motion.

Gerry chooses to take it as a good sign that Martin’s only reaction is a small nod, before Jon pulls them both back into the real world.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: reference to parental death i.e. Gerry’s canon backstory; isolation; non-graphic blinding mention; poly relationship discussion/worrying that potential third member of relationship might reject one of the original two.


	3. Chapter 3

Martin seems to be able to see Gerry fairly reliably after emerging from the Lonely, which is a relief to everyone involved. He does get startled sometimes—he can’t hear Gerry’s footsteps, nor spot him in mirrors, and he doesn’t even seem to notice when Gerry’s shadow falls across his face on the rare occasions that the sun makes an appearance. But, as he admits with a faint grin, it’s only to be expected, living with a ghost as he is.

Other than that, he’s a bit shy. He likes to take walks by himself among the countryside—surprisingly long ones, for someone who was nearly consumed by the Lonely, but Gerry’s not about to judge. There are plenty of much worse coping mechanisms. And besides, it works out for the best: it’s nice, having time that’s just for him and Jon. 

They hadn’t managed to pack up their entire makeshift studio in the mad rush to get out of London, but they’d saved a good portion of it, and so Gerry and Jon take to painting in the wide-open back garden. The easels hadn’t made it—too bulky—but they make do as best they can. 

Gerry’s never been overly fond of landscapes, as they don’t tend to lend themselves to the type of dense, geometric detail he favors, but there are plenty of wildflowers for still-lifes, and once or twice he even persuades Jon to sit for a portrait. Jon, meanwhile, is still a beginner, but he’s an even quicker study now that he’s not miserable all the time; his clumsy, amorphous blobs turn remarkably quickly into messy, amateurish landscapes whose vivid colors and short, stiff brushstrokes remind Gerry of his vague memories of Impressionist paintings from the few times he’d found himself in art museums, years ago. Jon preens under Gerry’s praise, and gives as many compliments as he receives.

(Neither of them bring up the fact that Jon may well not get a chance to develop his new-found hobby for much longer, at least not in the same way he is now, with color and shading in addition to the texture of the paint. After all, he hasn’t felt the Institute’s pull since leaving, and it’s been weeks since he was last there; it may be a while yet before he’s forced to make that particular choice.)

Jon doesn’t spend all his time with Gerry, of course; sometimes Gerry paints or walks or just sits by himself while Jon stays in with Martin. Before coming here, Gerry had been apprehensive that it would sting to have to relinquish a portion of Jon’s attention, still so new and so precious. But instead, it’s… fine. Nice, even, to have someone else to share in the effort of putting that sappy expression on Jon’s face and keeping it there.

* * *

These days, Jon rarely gets to sleep before the wee hours of the morning, if then; it’s not uncommon for him to rise in the early afternoon. (Something about the nightmares being rarer at odd hours, though Gerry wouldn’t be surprised if he were also a natural night owl.) Therefore, the hours between dawn and lunchtime tend to find Gerry and Martin floating about the house, gradually getting to know each other. Gerry comes to understand that Martin is a compulsive caretaker with a propensity for snark; he doesn’t stop offering tea or breakfast or a dozen other little creature comforts, even though Gerry doesn’t strictly need them, but he does figure out exactly how to provoke Gerry into bouts of friendly ribbing. 

It’s such a relief to have someone else to talk to than Jon. Not because Gerry doesn’t like spending time with Jon—he  _ does _ —but because he desperately needs some variety in his un-life. Besides, he can’t exactly talk to Jon about Jon, which is something he finds he wants to do absurdly often.

“I’ve never had a real boyfriend before, you know?” he remarks one rainy morning over the tea that Martin had once again insisted on making, even though Gerry can only half taste it. “Or a girlfriend, or anything. I never felt like I really  _ got  _ regular people even before my name and face were all over the papers.”

“Mmm, I know what you mean,” says Martin. “Well, not about the papers, or about growing up surrounded by Leitners, eugh, but—I’ve always felt like such an outsider. Everyone else was dating each other—at uni, or, or while travelling, or even just at bars and clubs—and I was just at home taking care of Mum, like always. I never knew where anyone found the  _ time.” _

Gerry smiles wryly and clinks his mug against Martin’s in a faux toast. “Nice to finally have the time,” he observes.

“Yeah,” says Martin, though there’s something distant in his expression.

Gerry raises his eyebrows. “Everything all right there?”

Martin rotates his mug on the table, then scratches his ear, then fusses with the cuffs of his jumper. “You’re not—disappointed, are you?” he says at length.

“Disappointed?”

“That Jon spends a lot of time with—someone else.”

“Nah,” says Gerry.

Martin frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” says Gerry. “Look—we spent a  _ hell _ of a lot of time together before coming here. We had to, really, or at least I did, because there was literally nobody else. And, sure, Melanie got a little less murder-y and I  _ think _ he liked Daisy well enough? But I am  _ overjoyed _ to be able to have some space for myself and know that there’s someone else who can be there for him when I’m not.”

Martin relaxes by degrees throughout Gerry’s little speech. “I… think I feel pretty much the same way,” he says.

Gerry tilts his head. “It’s okay if you’re not a hundred percent comfortable, you know,” he says. “Or, I mean, it’s not  _ ideal, _ but I’m not going to get mad at you for being jealous. In fact, I’d like to avoid doing anything to make you feel worse, since it seems likely we’re going to be spending a lot of time together, at least… at least for the immediate future, anyway.”

“Oh! No, that’s not what I—” Martin waves a hand, as if to dispel that idea. “I’ll admit that I was maybe just a  _ little  _ bit… nervous? I’m not always the best at new people, or—” He huffs a laugh. “Or sharing. But you’re not trying to turn this into some kind of competition, and—I hope you don’t mind me saying this? But it helps, knowing that you’d gotten together first, and he still wanted me anyway. I think I’d be having a harder time if he and I had been together first, and you’d gotten there later.”

“I don’t mind,” says Gerry. “So, really? No jealousy at all?”

Martin turns slightly pink. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says. “But it’s not so bad. Jon’s good at figuring out when I need a bit of reassurance.”

“That’s good,” says Gerry. “Heh. We got lucky with him, didn’t we?”

Martin looks down at his empty mug, the corners of his mouth tugging shyly upwards. “Yeah. We did.”

A passing fancy strikes Gerry. “Wait here a minute,” he says, and walks into the next room in search of the blanket he’d spotted on the threadbare sofa the previous day. When he returns with it in hand, Martin is wearing an expression of mild confusion. Gerry delicately drapes the blanket over Martin’s shoulders. 

Martin reaches up to touch it, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. “Thanks?” he says. “But I’m not cold.”

Gerry just smiles back at him and sits back down at the table. “I know.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: past isolation; non-graphic implication of possible future blinding; character in a poly relationship experiencing jealousy and doing their best to acknowledge/work through it in a healthy way.
> 
> Comments are love! Tell me what you think :)


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